I feel dizzy. …

I feel dizzy.  I’d thought the blood had stopped but it was a lull.   I am wondering how long this has been going on for.  I hadn’t looked, being so tired or lazy in the mornings that I have just sat on the throne and, well, que sera sera.

I’ve been feeling exhausted for months, for so long I can’t even remember when it all started, this dizzy tiredness.  It’s not normal.  I felt it first maybe a year ago.  I feel it now.   So I wonder.  My mother’s last words to me were in answer to my asking why she hadn’t told me she was ill:  “Darling, I really thought I was going to get better.”.  I suppose I must go soon to a doctor.  Will that be the moment my descent into ignominy and pain begins?  Other cultures have a trial of adulthood, we save it all up for when we die, held at the bring humiliated and crying out for meds until we choke to death.  If we’re lucky our hearts give out.

My sister is up at “our” croft now, three thousand miles away from me and a lot further by any other measure.  She hasn’t replied to my emails.  I had described the pain of my eldest stepdaughter’s estrangement from me.  She hasn’t replied to my saying I could have made it up there with her.  

After mum died I left it to my sister to put the stone on the grave.  It was for me a kindness to her, a deference to her grief.  But far from any recognition of this possibility I found instead that I had to badger her even to be informed of any progress or consulted on the design and finally it took her three years even to send me a photo of it.  Now, six years later I have found no way to return there, always imagining, hoping, expecting that we would be there with her, together, to go through the effects and memories, to lay our past to rest.  She says we must co-ordinate our diaries, as if that is the reason for any of this.  

It’s an odd feeling when the theatre ends and reality stands up and snarls at you.  We all feel we’re different, avidly devouring the news to confirm that: we would never have reacted like that; that our friends, family and background are nothing like theirs; or that we would simply never have got ourselves into that situation.  It’s other people that snap and murder, kill and burn, not us.  We’re normal, no, we’re better than normal, we’re special.  They are the weird people, with two heads and tails and horns with baby sacrificing parents and minds full of screaming.  That’s not us for fucks sake.  Oh, am I not allowed to use that word here?  Especially in the US, it seems to me that hypocrisy has been raised to an art form, a religion of sorts.  Where gun totting, chainsaw wielding heroes, scream out tracks on the radio and TV that have more beeps than notes, they are performed live in front of sell-out crowds.

I’m just about at breaking point, he snapped.

That’s always been a favourite poem of mine.  Adrian Henri’s I think.  I don’t know how that concrete poet set it out on the page but it looks resilient enough.

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~ by haastava on June 6, 2012.

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